


Spark

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the darkness, a spark is struck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

Backstage is made up of contrasts: the darkest dark and the lightest light. Christoph had heard, once, that these two extremes were the only truths in any given situation. Everything in between is grey.

Under the light, which is so bright that it glares, threatening headaches, Paul and Richard take off their make-up. They compare notes on their performance, on the reaction of the crowd. Richard holds up his fingers to display the chipped black polish. Paul goes one better: one of his calluses has split. Richard frowns. The red lines painted across his temples and cheekbones and down to his chin move and frown with him, and Paul laughs. He picks up a wipe from the round tub on the shelf in front of the mirror and cleans the red paint from Richard's face, left-handed as Richard still holds onto his right.

Flake walks up and down: a nervous pacing that with each pass brings him closer to the opened bottle of Port. A stack of nested plastic cups sits on the table beside the bottle. Flake is untidy on tour. He will not drink from the same cup twice. There's a pile of them lying on the carpet from before the show, the plastic crumpled and twisted, or the rim bitten through and the walls torn to make strips of ribbed, fluttering white.

Olli has put on his sunglasses as defence against the light. He has a half-smile, vague in its intensity, as he looks around the dressing room. He never says much after a show. They have a rule that they won't talk about it, at least not immediately. Paul and Richard break this rule every night they play. Guitarists are allowed to break the rules. Bassists should behave. He fell out of the rubber dinghy four times tonight, and that feels like misbehaviour. He would rather forget that it happened. Olli pulls a magazine from his bag and leafs through it. His disinterest is enough that he can fool even himself.

Till emerges from the bathroom. He's clean, his hair wet and ruffled. The water still runs cold down the back of his neck to blot into his sweater. Nobody looks up when he comes in. None of them dared to share the showers with him. When the pyros fail as they did tonight, his anger is so great that it outweighs both humiliation and judgement. It gets so bad that he can barely breathe; but the bathroom is always safe. Sometimes he goes in there to bleed. They never know until long afterwards: he cleans the tiles obsessively. Till carries thunderclouds with him, and in a small room lightning can strike twice.

Paul wads the soiled wipe, stained red and black with make-up, and tosses it towards the rubbish bin. Richard lets go of his hand and stands up. "My turn for the showers," he announces to the room at large.

"I'll come with you," Paul says.

The others look at them, trying to decide whether Paul is being disingenuous. It's difficult to know where he draws the line. Flake dismisses the problem and them with a sigh and reaches for the plastic cups. The Port is a siren now. Drinking is a good occupation: if he buries himself in the layers of fortified wine, then he doesn't have to speak to Till.

Olli turns another page of his magazine. His hands are grubbed with soot and make-up. The glossy white paper is marked, fingerprints on newsprint, the track of unwitting possession.

Till turns his back on the shades beneath the light and goes into the darkness in search of a spark.

***

Christoph stands in the corridor. The light is pale and dim out there. It flickers: a low-level annoyance, a strobe too lazy to pick up and rave. Behind the big black boxes with their metal-tabbed edges and locks, it bothers him scarcely at all.

If pressed, he would admit to hiding. He hates it when Till is angry. Irrationally, he feels guilty. His elevated position on stage makes him godlike: when he descends, he feels like the deus ex machina. But still he can't foresee or prevent a pyro failure, and Till hates those most of all. A demon is nothing without his hellfire.

The floor is sticky. Christoph looks down at the hard black rubber circles embossed beneath his boots. He doesn't hear Till's footsteps, but when he lifts his head again, there he is before him.

"What are you doing?"

Christoph shrugs. "Waiting for the showers."

"Paul and Richard are in there."

"Then I won't disturb them."

"They'd probably like it if you did."

There can be no sensible response to this. Christoph shrugs again and turns his head. The corridor stretches away and shrinks, becoming claustrophobic.

"Come here."

Christoph does as he's told.

Up close, Till emanates not rage but simple – but not uncomplicated – lust. He smells of soap and hot water. His sweater is soft black wool, threaded through with cigarette smoke. Christoph leans into him, aware of the press of wool against his body. It tickles through the rough torn lace of his vest and lulls him into relaxation. He comes closer. Till puts one arm around him: slides it down, fingertips exploring, almost tasting: sweat through black lace, desire on heated skin.

Christoph puts his head against Till's. Beneath the flickering light, Christoph can feel his hair damp and greasy, flattened by exertion. His scalp feels too warm, prickled by heat. In contrast, Till's hair is wet and cold, soothing against his cheek. He can feel the furrows made by the comb and wonders, if he presses hard enough, will the action leave little lines across his face?

Till lets his hand drop further. He cups Christoph's arse. The leather shorts are warm. It's not the smooth, glossy leather beloved by fashion. It's not even the softly worked stuff of leather trousers. This is much heavier, much harder than that. It's the leather of rawhide: the kind that drinks sweat like a sacrifice and chafes the skin pink in return. This is the kind of leather that needs to be broken in.

His fingers creep lower. Down over the double-sewn hem of the shorts, lingering over the stitching. There is a gap between the flare of leather and skin. Christoph holds his breath, waiting for the touch that will surely follow.

Till's fingers brush the top of Christoph's thigh.

Beneath the shorts, Christoph wears fishnet tights. Not stockings, as before, but tights, pulled all the way up and still sitting pretty. He's not yet used to the sensation of the black nylon gripping his body. Across his cock it feels like fingernails, scratchy and possessive. Across his arse, with the irritation of sweat, it feels like dozens of pinpricks.

Till's fingers caress back and forth, stroking the upswell of Christoph's arse. This time it tickles enough for Christoph to turn his head into Till's hair. The tumble of wet black is enough to chase off his giggles. This isn't remotely funny. The laughter curls in his belly and becomes need.

Till strokes his hand upward, and then his fingers insinuate down the back of the shorts: one, two, three. The leather pulls taut, ridiculously so, cutting into Christoph's belly. He stifles a moan and concentrates on what Till is doing. He can feel Till's fingernails, a blunt pain as he rakes down his coccyx and dips into the cleft of his arse. One nail catches in the nylon of the fishnets. Annoyed, Till grumbles low in his throat and withdraws his fingers. Christoph is disappointed. He wiggles, wanting possession again.

Till looks down. He undoes the button and zipper on Christoph's shorts enough to put his free hand inside. Christoph does not need to see his expression to know that Till is smiling. He can hear it in the rumble of contentment that comes as he grasps Christoph's cock, jerking it upright despite the snare of the fishnets and the close quarter of the shorts.

It hurts. Irritation becomes outright pain. Christoph wants to remind Till that his cock is sensitive, thank you very much: but he doesn't. There is something in this that makes the pain worth it.

The fishnets stretch. They confine his desire. They confound Till. He tangles his fingers amongst the knitted nylon, grasping deep around hardness into the softness of Christoph's groin. He strokes, coaxes – hard this time, no longer gentle. Christoph's mouth opens in silent protest. He hangs against Till's shoulder, hands pressed to his chest, feeling the softness of the woollen sweater beneath his palms.

The fishnets pull tight. It hurts so much. It feels as if the nylon will slice him open. Then the tights rip, and he thrusts madly, stricken with relief, into Till's hand.

His eyelids are a veil: black, red, redder, as he tilts back his head. The light flickers. He notices it now. It pulses, judders, chasing starbursts. It willo-the-wisps through his consciousness, and Christoph gasps after it, cries empty sounds in desperation for glory. Pulled tight against Till's body, grasped fore and aft, he rocks, abandoned to the swell.

The storm breaks. He is flotsam upon it.

***

Till fastens Christoph's shorts and then steps away from him, his expression thoughtful. "You're a masochist."

"You should know."

He smiles. "I do."

They stand in the corridor, not quite awkward but not quite relaxed either. Time has not dimmed the spark: and sparks need careful handling, lest they rage out of control.

Paul puts his head around the dressing room door. "Bathroom's free."

"Thanks." Christoph lets his gaze slide sideways. He wavers, and then walks away from the wall and the packing cases; away from Till. He has enough vanity to swing his hips a little, and is rewarded with a huff of appreciation.

The light flickers, catching on the leather of his shorts and the glossed sweat on his back. Christoph pauses, almost looks over his shoulder; and then he goes into the dressing room.

***

Till stands in the corridor. When the light flickers again, he reaches up and smacks it hard with the side of his fist. It jumps as if startled, and then fades slowly.

Soon, the corridor is dark.


End file.
